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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051463">so happy together</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran'>floweryfran</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>it is you i love more than anyone [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU from canon, Also Because I Said So, Ben Parker Lives, Hurt Peter Parker, Irondad, Jewish Peter Parker, Peter Parker Has a Family, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, addressing the events of spider-man homecoming, and ben does too, and ben thinks tony is a twink, and im gonna tag it, because I said so, because thats supreme, ben parker and tony stark are PALS, ben parker is a dilf, but better than marvel did, but coparenting styles, irondad and spider-son, out of my cold dead hands, platonic dadding abounds, some blood tw, sorry but its true, tbh, thats it thats the fic, tony stark has a fat crush on ben parker, you can pry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:28:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,690</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051463</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tony Fucking Stark,” is what slips out, because Ben really has no control over his mouth. “By which I mean, hi, Tony Fucking Stark, please, what are you doing in my house? Or, like. At my house. Outside my door, knocking on it.” G-d, he sounds like Peter. No wonder where he got it from, poor kid. </p><p>He has just enough awareness to hear Mejía throw a strikeout and <em>literally</em> cannot stop himself from yelling, “Oh, yeah, that’s my man!” </p><p>Tony Fucking Stark blinks once, then says, “I can’t believe that I have met so many people—so many people—over the course of my life, and yet this is literally the best first impression anyone has ever made.”</p><p>That’s where it starts, really.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>or, ben parker calling tony stark a twink for 13k words</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Parker &amp; Peter Parker, Ben Parker &amp; Tony Stark, Peter Parker &amp; Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>it is you i love more than anyone [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676065</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>206</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1053</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so happy together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/readerie/gifts">readerie</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is a gift to one of the loveliest people around: my darling readerie, one of my first readers on this hellsite and a true friend to me all the time, always. PLEASE go check out her fics--they crack me up! too precious. i love you big, miss becca. &lt;3</p><p>--</p><p>this takes place in a slightly adjacent universe to “the best thing." here, ben learns peter is spider-man sooner than when pete gets shanked by that criminal. that's the only diff! please love ben! </p><p>and the title is from that song by the turtles that is perpetually stuck in my head. maybe it's ben's favorite song, actually. i hope you all have it stuck in your head, so we can all have ben's favorite song stuck in our head!!!! how cute of us!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Ben first meets Tony Stark, he’s wearing a bright yellow apron, his luckiest Mets cap, and a grimace, because his radio just told him Mejía let a runner make it to third and they’re six freaking runs down and they really should be playing better, considering how aggressively Ben is willing it to be so. </p><p> </p><p>The knock on the door isn’t completely unprecedented: the whole floor is pretty well acquainted. That Meredith girl next door is barely twenty-years-old and utterly hopeless when it comes to changing a lightbulb, or a battery, or the time on her oven, so all likelihood points to it being her asking how to plug in her blender. Or it could be crotchety Mister Pan from across the hall, who knocks on the door every time Ben and Peter get too into a ballgame, or too into a Mario Kart race, or too into a discussion as to whether turkey sausage or turkey bacon is the supreme breakfast protein. Or Missus Kane asking for sugar. Or Miss Milkjovic asking which station the cable is set to. Or Tommy Flannigan asking for an umbrella to borrow. </p><p> </p><p>It could’ve been a whole host of people, is the point, so Ben opens the door, cursing his terrible, perseverant Mets, and turns to see a grimy twink of a dude who isn’t even <em> his </em> grimy twink of a kid. 

He wonders idly if it’s okay to call a grown man a twink. Probably not. But that’s what the man looks like: lithely muscled, a good six inches shorter than Ben, hair carefully coiffed like some kinda competition bird and a big ol’ bruise on his cheekbone, settled into the edge of his two-gallon eye bags. </p><p> </p><p>Ben meets the guy’s gaze. He guesses he owes it to whoever it is, seeing as he just unabashedly spent three whole seconds checking him out. </p><p> </p><p>And the thing is, he should be more surprised than he is, probably. </p><p> </p><p>But his kid is a fucking spider, sort of, so this is more like a delayed expectation. </p><p> </p><p>“Tony Fucking Stark,” is what slips out, because Ben really has no control over his mouth. “By which I mean, hi, Tony Fucking Stark, please, what are you doing in my house? Or, like. At my house. Outside my door, knocking on it.” G-d, he sounds like Peter. No wonder where he got it from, poor kid. </p><p> </p><p>He has just enough awareness to hear Mejía throw a strikeout and <em> literally </em>cannot stop himself from yelling, “Oh, yeah, that’s my man!” </p><p> </p><p>Tony Fucking Stark blinks once, then says, “I can’t believe that I have met so many people—so <em> many </em> people—over the course of my life, and yet this is literally the best first impression anyone has ever made.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s where it starts, really.</p><p> </p><p>Ben moves over, lets Tony Fucking Stark walk into his living room—with all the unfolded sheets on the end of the couch, and three of Peter’s sneakers under the coffee table, none of which match, and their perpetual Monopoly game on the rug by the TV—and he says, because he may be an idiot but he sure isn’t inhospitable, “Want a cookie? They’re chocolate chip.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony Fucking Stark blinks, then a little grin breaks out on his face, lighting him up behind the eyes. “I mean, if I’m not putting you out.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben snorts. “One cookie. Oh no. I can no longer afford to feed and house my teenager.” Ben tilts his head with a frown and drops a palm on his chest. “I do feed him real food sometimes. Honest.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben watches out of the corner of his eye as Tony shoves his hands into his pockets.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, that’s actually why I’m here, believe it or not.”</p><p> </p><p>“To make my kid eat more vegetables?” says Ben, aghast.</p><p> </p><p>Tony’s lips quirk. “Not quite. Hopefully this will be just as good for him, though.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben drops two still-warm cookies on a plate and walks into the living room, apron and ballcap and all. He sits on the couch. </p><p> </p><p>Tony hasn’t moved.</p><p> </p><p>“What, are you a vampire? Come sit on my couch, weirdo. It’s really nice, I swear. No springs that poke your ass when you sit—Pete and I fixed those a few weeks ago, and, damn, was it worth it.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony has this barely-there gleam in his eyes, and it takes Ben a moment to realize why he can’t stop focusing on it: slight as it is, it looks wholly out of place on the guy. Every time he’s on TV, he’s got a pair of stupid sunglasses blocking his face. He’s always hiding. Makes him seem like a robot. </p><p> </p><p>Well, if Tony feels awkward, Ben will just be all the more comfortable. He’s got enough cheer for the both of ‘em, he bets.</p><p> </p><p>He puts the plate on the coffee table and pats the cushion next to him. “Come on, the water’s swell.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony finally moves, coming to perch beside him. </p><p> </p><p>Ben offers the plate, and Tony takes a cookie. Bites it, one hand under his mouth to catch crumbs—and Ben wants to say, <em> really, this place is </em> made <em> of crumbs and spit and duct tape and a prayer, you’d just be adding to the ambiance, </em> but he keeps it to himself because the closer Ben gets to him the more he realizes the guy looks like a gentle breath could knock him flat on his ass. For all his bravado, he looks like the knees on an old pair of jeans: worn down to expose every thread.</p><p> </p><p>Tony’s eyebrows shoot up mid-chew. “Ho-ee shi’,” he says around the mouthful. He swallows thickly. “I must say, you make a mean cookie, Mister Parker.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben grins, weirdly pleased by the praise. He swats it away. “Family recipe. Secret ingredient is subbing the milk for hazelnut creamer.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony nods, eyebrows wrinkling thoughtfully. </p><p> </p><p>Ben folds his hands together. “So, you, uh—came to talk about Peter, right? Doctor Stark.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony’s face bunches and he shakes his shoulders, as if Ben just threw a heavy blanket over him. “Doctor Stark—Jesus, that’s a new one. Way to make me feel ancient.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben squints. “Don’t you have three PhDs?”</p><p> </p><p>Tony blinks. “Um, yeah. But—”</p><p> </p><p>“Peter talks about you all the ding dong day,” Ben explains. It’s way better for the man to think it’s Peter’s ramblings that have Ben knowing useless facts about him, rather than Ben’s own fascination with all the crud he does. Ben thinks he has a pretty good cap on all the freaking out his brain is doing. And his heart, which is ricocheting pinball-style around in his chest, which is—concerning, actually, maybe he needs to get that checked. “He plotzes every time you’re on the TV. He’s gonna shit his pants if he walks through that door and sees you. You think I’m exaggerating but I mean it: straight up, literal shit.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony nods coolly. “I actually do want to talk to him, but I don’t plan to overstay my welcome. Your house is lovely, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben snorts. “It’s a fuckin’ pigsty. But thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s lived-in,” Tony corrects. There’s something almost wistful about his tone, and Ben thinks he must be likable by nature. Like. Ben is aware he’s a soft dude. But this is excessive, even for him. He wants to wrap Tony Fucking Stark in a blanket and put Finding Nemo on the TV while he makes him a cup of hot chocolate. 

What the <em> fuck </em> is up with that.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, thank you,” Ben says. He turns his ball cap backwards so Tony can see his face better. “Pete should be home in—” he looks at the clock, “—fifteen minutes or so. Depending on if he missed the train.” Ben leans forward, hands on his thighs. “But if you had something you wanted to say to me first, before he gets here, be my guest.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony nods, sniffs, and, in the span of a blink, his whole disposition changes. It’s like he plasters a mold overtop his face, hard along the curve of his forehead and the half-moon of his lips, taking every bit of him Ben has been able to read and covering it. </p><p> </p><p>This is press Tony Stark, TV Tony Stark, <em> welcome to the Stark Expo </em> Tony Stark. </p><p> </p><p>“I actually stopped by because your Peter applied for a grant from the September Foundation,” Tony says. </p><p> </p><p>A moment.</p><p> </p><p>“He did what now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yeah,” Tony nods, smirk in place, “and I wanted to come by and let you both know personally that his application pretty much floored everyone who read it. Like, on the floor. Wiped us all out and, ah, stuck us there. Your kid has big ideas, big plans for the world. He’s smart. We could use someone like that at Stark Industries.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben’s stomach is simmering somewhere near his feet. Peter isn’t the type to apply to shit without telling him first—without talking about it every day for two weeks and having Ben read three essay drafts even though Ben is probably undiagnosed dyslexic and takes an hour to read <em> Love You Forever. </em> And Ben doesn’t believe for a g-ddamn second that Tony Fucking Stark doesn’t know about Spider-Man. Doesn’t know about <em> Peter </em> being Spider-Man. That’s an impossibility. </p><p> </p><p>“So you’re here to offer him… what, an internship?” Ben says, frozen.</p><p> </p><p>“An internship,” Tony repeats, then nods. “Exactly. An internship.” His eyes flit somewhere past Ben’s head and back so quickly Ben thinks he might have imagined it. “And a scholarship grant to put towards his education, whatever that might mean. He goes to a fancy nerd school, right? In Manhattan?”</p><p> </p><p>“Midtown Science and Tech,” Ben says.</p><p> </p><p>Tony nods. “Thought so. He can put it towards tuition, or save it for college. We just—really need him on our team. At SI.”</p><p> </p><p>And the thing is, Ben has this reeling, fishing-pole feeling in his stomach, because he wants this for Peter <em> so badly. </em> Peter, who does everything he can to be good and kind and still loses people like pocket change along the way. Who puts everyone else first. Who goes out into the streets and punches the lights out of robbers and muggers and kidnappers because he feels an <em> obligation to, </em> and then comes home and does his homework and eats dinner with Ben and talks about Ned and Scary Michelle until he starts to nod off into his instant mashed potatoes. </p><p> </p><p>He deserves something good, no strings attached. He deserves it so much that Ben feels nauseous just thinking about it. He wants to grab this between his hands, hold it down, prod it to make sure it’s real, it’s true, and then give it to Peter himself wrapped in ribbons and striped paper. </p><p> </p><p>All Ben can do is stare.</p><p> </p><p>The door opens, then. </p><p> </p><p>Peter comes in, stuttering just as much as Ben predicted, cheeks pink, brows shooting high on his forehead. And Tony talks to him in his bedroom. And then they come out together, Tony with this impressed glint in his eyes accompanied by <em> eau de pure terror, </em> the mask just a little adjacent to where it had sat earlier, a little glimpse at his raw nature once more. He’s got a scarred hand on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter is smiling something blazing and bright, looking at Tony Fucking Stark like he’s singlehandedly spooned the moon into his palms, and Ben stands so he can shake Tony’s hand and say, “Thank you. Gosh, thanks so much, Doc. This means the absolute world to the both of us, I hope you know that. You’ve just—irrevocably changed our lives for the better.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony’s eyes fall wide like he’s cornered, like Ben prodded some soft underbelly—some chink in the armor as it were. 

It lasts a moment before the mask is on in full form and Tony gives them both a dazzling, plastic grin.</p><p> </p><p>“G-d, I hope so. Really seems like the two of you deserve some good.” </p><p> </p><p>The contrast between his politely aloof expression and the fierceness with which his words fall loose makes Ben’s head spin.</p><p> </p><p>Tony nods at Peter once more.</p><p> </p><p>Thanks Ben for the cookies. </p><p> </p><p>And goes, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne.</p><p> </p><p>The door shuts behind him. </p><p> </p><p>Ben turns to Peter, whose jaw is dropped halfway to Florida. He says the only thing that pops into his taffy-stretched brain.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s kinda’ a twink, isn’t he?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Ben!!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>When Ben sees on the news a few days later that Spider-Man had literally been in a parking lot brawl with Captain America and a bunch of other weirdos—that Shrinky Dink guy, what the fuck? What the everloving fuck?—he is not… mad. Not really. He doesn’t get mad. It’s just not in him. That was May’s job, and whatever little fire he had by proxy when she was around, she took with her into the loamy earth of the Cedar Grove Cemetery.  </p><p> </p><p>He is, however, rubbed <em> very much </em> the wrong way. </p><p> </p><p>He calls Tony while he’s sat on the end of Peter’s bed, the kid asleep with an ice pack still perched on his bruised little baby face, in medias res, the way his life always is. He’s got a hand wrapped around Peter’s foot from outside the comforter. He sort of wants to scoop Peter into his lap the way he did when Peter was younger and he’d dream of Mary’s curly hair, Rich’s reedy voice, and wake up crying because they still hadn’t come home. </p><p> </p><p>Tony picks up after two rings. <em> “Mister Parker,” </em> he says. Ben can hear the tension in his voice, like his throat is fit to snap. </p><p> </p><p>“Doc,” says Ben. “We need to have a chat.”</p><p> </p><p>So they meet in a coffee place somewhere near the Woodside station, halfway between Forest Hills and Midtown—in public, so Tony knows Ben isn’t about to smack him silly or shout at him. </p><p> </p><p>Still, Tony sits like he’s on a bed of nails, shoulders tense and eyes guarded, coffee steaming in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not about to holler at you,” Ben says evenly, leaning back in his chair. Tony looks like he needs eight feet of space on all sides to settle. He’s hardly even making the effort to hide it. To Ben, it seems like some strange anti-miracle that he could devolve into this after only a handful of days. He looks absolutely beaten.</p><p> </p><p>The understanding that something much bigger than a little scuffle had happened in Germany makes him pause. </p><p> </p><p>By the looks of it, the last thing Tony needs is someone to berate him now, while he seems to see ghosts sitting at every little wooden table around them. </p><p> </p><p>The little bundle of irritation in Ben’s chest unknots, steady threads falling loose to his feet. </p><p> </p><p>“I just need you to know that I don’t accept you lying to me,” Ben says softly. “I don’t. I let you see my kid. I let you give him an internship—which, frankly, I don’t even know if that’s real. If you’re taking my kid overseas to fight your friends—”</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t supposed to end in a fight,” Tony croaks, and then freezes, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you—I’m—that’s my bad, go on, you talk, please. You’re right, and I need to—face the music, listen to the song.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben stares for a moment. There’s something heavy in the lines of Tony’s face. In the stitch beside his eyebrow and the Ace bandage on his wrist and the way he’s hunched in his chair, as if even sitting is causing him pain.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you know what I was going to say,” Ben decides. “And I trust you won’t lie to me again, because that wasn’t right and you know it. All I want to do is make it real clear that you’ve stuck yourself in Peter’s life now, and that’s got some—ramifications and shit. That kid could use someone else in his corner, watching his back, and if you want to give it a shot, you’ve just gotta tell me now. Because I want to give you a chance, man. I do. But if you plan on marching right back out of his life the second things get—sticky with him,” Ben leans forward, trying his best to be both earnest and soft, understanding but assertive, to draw on the memory of May’s fire but tamper it the way he always has, “then I need you to turn around now and go, no looking back. You can’t be in and out. Pete can’t take that, and he doesn’t deserve it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right,” Tony says, a long moment after Ben had stopped talking, as if making sure he had nothing else to add. “You’re absolutely right. I—yes. The internship is still up, the scholarship, all of it. Of course. And no lying.” Then, almost like a secret, he adds, “Peter is kinda awesome.”</p><p> </p><p>Something in Ben calms. Brightens, even. Polished brass doorknobs and sunlight off the skyscrapers at midday.</p><p> </p><p> He settles deeper into his slouch, tilting his head to the side, and sips at his obscenely sugared drink. “You bet your butt he is. Awesomest kid around. The sun literally shines out of his ass, all the time, even when he’s sad. He’s just like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony hums, then seems to let a surface layer of his guard down. He sips at his coffee, a hand on his ribs. As if holding them in place.</p><p> </p><p>He looks like absolute shit. The more he eases into his seat, the more visible it is. Like he’s aching, sure, but also like his brain is pouring images behind his eyes and he’s trapped in his skull trying to watch them all. </p><p> </p><p>“Looks like a lot happened over in Germany that none of us regular people know about,” Ben says. An invitation. </p><p> </p><p>Tony looks up, fast. “Excuse me?” he says.</p><p> </p><p>Ben raises his free hand in surrender. “Hey, all I’m saying is I’ve got two big ears ready to listen to it if you need to let it spew. Looks like it’s beating you up. Literally. You look like dog crap. No offense.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony sighs something that, in another life, could have been a laugh. “Yeah, you aren’t far off there, pal,” he mumbles.</p><p> </p><p>Ben prods Tony’s shin under the table with his foot and gives him a tiny smile. “It somehow seemed crazier than any family dispute I’ve ever been a part of.” Ben shakes his head a little. “You’d be amazed by some of the creative curses my safta used to toss out over the Passover seder.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony doesn’t smile, but he relaxes just slightly. “This was a family dispute, alright, but amplified by, like, ridiculous governmental pressure, a hundred-odd countries breathing down our necks, and the understanding that we’d all rather literally croak right there on the tarmac than not get our way.”</p><p> </p><p>“The Accords,” Ben deduces.</p><p> </p><p>Tony nods in affirmation. “Trying to reason with Steve Rogers is like trying to reason with a stupid, bastard of a refrigerator with a hero complex. Or a bulldozer with anger issues.” He looks up at Ben, his knuckles nearly white around his mug. “I never meant for it to reach blows, like some sorta’—street brawl. I wanted Spider-Man to take Cap’s shield, I was gonna get out of my suit, and we were gonna talk. But Rogers never met a fight he didn’t want to dabble in at the very least, and I didn’t particularly want to be decapitated by his flying metal pancake, so…”</p><p> </p><p>“So you started going at it and everyone followed,” Ben says. “How did it end?”</p><p> </p><p>Tony stiffens. Takes a sip of his drink. Ben regrets asking.</p><p> </p><p>“Colonel James Rhodes was shot out of the sky,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>“Holy mother of fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>“Friendly fire,” Tony adds.</p><p> </p><p>Ben stares. “Is he going to be okay?” Something in his chest needs the answer to be yes. He’s seen Rhodes on the news, seen the tabloid pictures of him and Tony with their arms around each other, laughing themselves silly. Knows the story: friends since college, brothers for life. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want anyone to feel what he felt when Rich passed. </p><p> </p><p>So when Tony says, “He’s stable. Paralyzed from the waist down, but hanging in there like the stubborn asshole he’s always been,” Ben lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m real glad to hear that,” he says genuinely.</p><p> </p><p>Tony meets his gaze for a moment, then looks away. “Yeah, well. He won’t walk again.”</p><p> </p><p>“But he’s alive,” Ben says. “That’s more important than anything.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony peers at him over the rim of his mug. Nods once.</p><p> </p><p>Ben nods back.</p><p> </p><p>“But I’m assuming the fight didn’t end there?” Ben asks after a few minutes of them sipping in almost-companionable silence.</p><p> </p><p>Tony clears his throat. “Ah, no. After that, it was just—me, following Rogers and the Winter Soldier across country lines to try and help ‘em out, help ‘em escape, only to find out—surprise!—the Soldier had killed my parents back in the nineties! Fun, cool, super exciting news.”</p><p> </p><p>The second it’s out of his mouth, Tony looks mortified to have said it.</p><p> </p><p>Ben feels his jaw drop. “I thought your parents died in a car crash.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did too. Turns out it was a targeted HYDRA attack.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben swears under his breath. “He was brainwashed, right? That’s what the Insight data dump revealed?”</p><p> </p><p>Tony nods once, and Ben knows there’s more there. “But after watching your own mother get the life strangled out of her—that isn’t the first thing on your mind. Or, well. My mind.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben is sick to his stomach. “Shit, Tony,” he mumbles, and reaches across the table to pat Tony’s hand. </p><p> </p><p>Tony jumps at the contact before looking at Ben, cheeks pinkish, eyes enormous and terrified.</p><p> </p><p>Ben squeezes. </p><p> </p><p>Tony, miraculously, keeps talking. “So I wanted to bash his face in a little bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t blame you,” Ben says. He wouldn’t feel that way, he’s fairly certain, but May would have. Undoubtedly. He can see it in his mind: lots of punching, some screaming in <em> siciliano </em>. So he gets it.</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t like I was trying to kill him,” Tony says, and with every syllable, it starts to sound more like he’s begging for Ben to believe him. “Gosh, if I wanted him dead I could have had him out in a second. Him <em> and </em> Rogers. With the suit? Easy. But I didn’t. I couldn’t, not even….” Tony takes a breath. “They, however…” Tony shakes his head, eyes wide and locked in remembering, “I know how Steve fights. I’ve watched him train—I’ve trained <em> with </em> him. This was Steve’s all. He was trying to kill me rather than let me touch the Soldier.”</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell happened?” Ben breathes.</p><p> </p><p>Tony looks up, then away. He shrugs. “I wanted the fight to end as soon as it started—wanted to be with Rhodey, check on Peter and Natasha and the others—but it was, ah, too late. I was distracted. He got me down, killed my suit. I was lying there immobile in the armpit of Siberia for—G-d, five hours?—until my guys found me.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben genuinely thinks he’s going to vomit all over the table. “What the fuck,” he says. “What the fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony shrugs again. “Wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”</p><p> </p><p>“Half of your team turning on you? And trying to <em> kill you? </em> Leaving you freezing to death in a dead suit like a—fuckin’ meat freezer? Doc, I dunno what you think friends are supposed to be like, but that’s not fuckin’ <em> it, </em> man.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony shrugs a third time. Slides his hand out from under Ben’s, his face going stony—a promise he won’t be spilling any more secrets to him, a practical stranger, in the grey light coming through these shop windows. The silence between them goes tense; the liminal space they’d created, ruptured.</p><p> </p><p>Ben realizes rather suddenly that he’s practically leaning across the table, perched on the edge of his chair as if every one of Tony’s words had reeled him closer. He scoots back, a little embarrassed, but mostly absolutely fucking confused. </p><p> </p><p>This poor schmuck. By the sounds of it, he has all of one true friend in the world, and he probably blames himself for his injury, if Ben’s reading him right. Those deep-carved lines? That’s self-loathing. </p><p> </p><p>Ben remembers meeting May and feeling as if he’d known her forever, as if he <em> should have </em> known her forever, because something like his soul seemed to curl up comfortably in his chest and purr at the sight of her.</p><p> </p><p>This isn’t that. But it’s the closest thing to it Ben has felt since. And maybe Tony feels something like it? A weird pull in his chest? </p><p> </p><p>What else would have prompted him to spill that shitshow of a story to Just Ben Parker, of all people?</p><p> </p><p>Ben swallows and stares at Tony—this bloodstained fucking bundle of multitudes folded neatly into a crisp-cornered suit—and resolves to show him how a real fuckin’ friend would treat him. </p><p> </p><p>Yet he knows almost nothing about him, save for the one, glaring thing they’ve got in common: Peter. </p><p> </p><p>Ben scratches the scruff on his chin. He isn’t really above a little sneaky plotting for the betterment of the people he cares for. And he’s sure Peter won’t find anything but extreme, nerdy excitement in this, if it plays out right. </p><p> </p><p>So he plans, as they sit there in silence, the hum of the cafe filling their ears. And he gets Tony Fucking Stark’s cellphone number. And he sends it straight to his kid. And he tells Tony, “I’ll see you next Tuesday for fish tacos.”</p><p> </p><p>And when Tony blinks in complete confusion as the statement smacks him, visibly, three times over, but then breaks into the most genuine smile Ben has seen from him yet—hopeful, G-d, so painfully hopeful—he feels like these might just be the makings of a good thing. </p><p> </p><p>A very good thing, indeed.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Tony is sitting on Ben’s couch again, but this time he’s slumped so low his chin is almost at the level of his knees, and he’s got a beer weeping condensation over his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>The Mets are on the TV. Peter is on patrol. And Ben is hanging out with Tony Fucking Stark. <em> For fun. </em> </p><p> </p><p>His plan is working. This is great. No, really, it’s excellent, Ben means it from the pit of his stomach all the way to the smile on his lips, because, frankly, Tony is great company.</p><p> </p><p>At first, Tony had been a tough nut. It took Ben three weeks to get him to agree to come over and watch a ballgame, and when he did say yes, Ben felt it was more just to get him to stop asking than anything.</p><p> </p><p>But then Tony had showed up in a <em> vintage Mets cap </em> with his arms full of takeout and Ben thought, <em> oh yeah. It’s all coming together. </em></p><p> </p><p>Tony is funny, in a dry way. In a sometimes sad, sometimes sort of scary way. He’ll joke about being painfully lonely and an obscure episode of Seinfeld on the same breath. He zones out in the middle of a conversation but manages to carry it on through the fog. Sometimes he pulls out a tablet and starts scrawling ideas while Ben is literally in the middle of a story. Sometimes he’s just stupid and completely unwilling to take care of himself. No food, no water, no sleep, no nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Ben doesn’t mind, though. It’s not like he expected the man to be perfect—nor does he want him to be—and, in almost embarrassing frankness, Ben would admit to taking any friend he can get at this point. </p><p> </p><p>Not that May and him didn’t have friends, but. Peter didn’t have all that many friends in school, so Ben and May didn’t have many parents to meet. Then Skip happened, and they dreaded going out and leaving Peter home, with a sitter or without. And it’s not like either of them have much in the way of family left. No grandparents for Peter, no other aunts or uncles. No cousins, even.</p><p> </p><p>So Ben grabs Tony by the metaphorical sleeve and pins him down onto the stained, corduroy couch as often as he can.</p><p> </p><p>And, the more they hang out, the more Tony comes to life. </p><p> </p><p>It’s like he’s a new man. He’s just as witty as he seems in interviews or at a podium, but more self-deprecating now. Charming, but Ben can see behind his eyes that he means it. Brutally intelligent—being on the other end of Tony’s gaze is like being poked with darts and scalpels—but easier about it, explaining everything he brings up when it goes over Ben’s head. He’s thoughtful, and nurturing, and never makes Ben feel like a chore. </p><p> </p><p>If he’s this good with Ben, Ben feels fierce joy at the thought of what he’s like with Peter.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes Tony stops by the law firm Ben works the desk at, a pizza in hand, and they sit in the break room on folding chairs and eat their way through it until Ben’s back on the clock. Sometimes at five, Tony’s got a shiny car parked outside, waiting for him, and they go pick Peter up from AcaDec together. Tony stops at inviting himself inside, but after all that it’s not like Ben is gonna say, <em> gee, thanks, see you next week! </em> So Tony is around for dinner every so often.</p><p> </p><p>Tony gets back with Pepper Potts, and that’s pretty much the happiest Ben has ever seen him, rubbing his palms together and grinning, a bag of takeout swinging from his elbow when Ben opens the door. Ben smacks him on the shoulder in such delight-fueled strength that Tony’s knees nearly buckle, and Ben has to catch him by the elbows, head thrown back in laughter. </p><p> </p><p>He never forgets how breakable Tony is, how completely grey he was when they met, but he likes to pretend it never happened, because the Tony he knows now is fucking <em> vibrant. </em> Eclectic and generous and honestly very clingy, but it’s okay, because Ben is clingy too. And Peter is sure as fuck clingy. So they make a pretty little trio.</p><p> </p><p>Anywho, they’re watching the game, and everything is swell. That’s all that’s really important. </p><p> </p><p>A little knock on the window in the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>Tony squints and strains to look.</p><p>“Probably a pigeon,” Ben says, sipping his beer. “Pigeons are dreck.”</p><p> </p><p>“Big pigeon,” Tony comments.</p><p> </p><p>The window slides open and they both jump.</p><p> </p><p>Spider-Man’s masked head pokes inside.</p><p> </p><p>“I forgot the Mets are on!” he yelps, scrambling down from the window ledge, trying not to step in the sink and failing, almost wiping out on the wet plating. “The Mets are on, and I was just—following this cat around, like an <em> idiot, </em>when I could be watching the Mets. If I don’t actively watch them,” he lands heavily on the ground and pulls his mask off, his hair sticking straight up with static, “they will lose. It is through my iron willpower alone that they ever win. Hi, Tony, you’re on my couch.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m on your couch,” Tony agrees, lifting his beer towards Peter as if toasting him. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s cool, that’s cool.” He points down the hallway. “Going to grab my lucky jersey. And my lucky hat. And the lucky car decal we don’t have a car to stick on.” He goes, footsteps thumping. </p><p> </p><p>Ben looks to Tony, who’s staring at the now-empty hallway. He grins. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, pal,” he says, prodding Tony’s knee with his foot. “Let’s stick some garbage frozen food in the oven for the kid. Mozzarella sticks?” Ben stands, starting towards the kitchen. He turns to call over his shoulder, only to see Tony right behind him. “Would you eat some if I make enough for ya?”</p><p> </p><p>Tony shrugs. “Once a teenage boy, always a teenage boy.” Then, “As long as there’s still enough for Pete. I think we both know the way he eats.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like a fuckin’ Hoover,” says Ben fondly, rifling through the freezer. It’s not all that full—never is—but everything they’ve got comes in clunky cardboard boxes, so it’s still like searching bookshelves for the right novel. </p><p> </p><p>“One time at my place,” Tony says, holding the boxes Ben removes from the freezer to find the sticks, “I watched him eat two cartons of white rice and three tubs of sesame chicken. And when he was done, he ate a pint of Ben &amp; Jerry’s with a bag of skittles poured over the top, which—honestly, gross, seeing as the ice cream was—”</p><p> </p><p>“Phish Food?” Ben fills in. </p><p> </p><p>Tony grunts. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s his favorite. He likes the little…” Ben says, turning over his shoulder to gesture, “chunky chocolate things.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter comes bounding into the kitchen, then. “I’m <em> starved,” </em> he says, with the utmost drama. He flops over the countertop. Ben notes he’s got his David Wright jersey on, cap on his head, ears sticking out the sides like a pair of g-ddamn flags, car decal balanced atop the rim.</p><p> </p><p>Tony wrinkles his nose while he looks at him, as if Peter is the most puzzling little nudnik that’s ever waltzed into his sightline. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m making you some mozzarella sticks,” Ben says, finding the box and triumphantly shaking it. A smattering of crumbs falls out. He stares at them and then pretends he didn’t see them fall. No vacuuming while the Mets are on.</p><p> </p><p>“Yum,” Peter sighs with a grin, rolling around against the counter so he’s face-up, but still lying back. “I love mozzarella sticks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fake Italian food is pretty damn good,” Tony agrees.</p><p> </p><p>Peter squints at him as Ben busies himself shoving all the boxes from Tony’s arms back into the freezer. “Fake Italian food?”</p><p> </p><p>Tony gasps so hard Ben seriously fears he’ll choke. “You thought mozzarella sticks are… <em> authentic?” </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Uh…”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Madonna mia, </em> it’s worse than I thought.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, what’s fake Italian food, then? For a frame of reference.”</p><p> </p><p>“G-d, what <em> isn't </em> fake Italian food?” Tony says, throwing his now-empty hands in the air. “Any tomato sauce with cheese cooked into it. Or sugar. Or oregano, <em> fuck </em> oregano. Who would do that to a perfectly good tomato sauce.” Tony crosses over to Peter, imitating his position with only a single grunt of discomfort. Ben hears his back crack and swallows his snort. “Mm, garlic bread. Breadsticks. Olive Garden, just, as an institution. Meatballs served on spaghetti. Oh, alfredo. Chicken on pasta, who the fuck does that? Not Italian. And, on that same grain, putting pasta on pizza?? What kind of craked up bullshit?? Ugh, American pizza, it’s gross, it’s not pizza. The cheese everywhere, what is up with that? Just a little cheese, all you need is a little, it’s too oily otherwise, too soggy, I can’t even think about it being called Italian.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben lets himself zone out with a little grin on his face, pouring mountains of distinctly non-Italian finger food onto a baking tray for his kid. He can do shit like zoning out now. He has that luxury. Because he knows he’s got another guy watching Peter’s back for him while he’s away.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>In another place, at another time, Peter leaves school and a ferry gets ripped in two. Tony Fucking Stark welds it together and then takes Peter’s suit because he is the <em> only thing </em> standing between Peter and his untimely death.</p><p> </p><p>Here, though, and now: Tony saves the ferry, follows Peter to that rooftop, and shouts until his throat goes sore, his eyes panicked, his hands shaking hard. He doesn’t take the suit, because he knows Peter better than that, has really known him for a full summer already—has sat in the lab with him, tinkering and plotting and building, has scarfed down Ben’s cooking at the Parker dining table, has brought him to a tech conference and watched him wring his hands but also ask such nuanced questions of the speakers that Tony himself was blown away by this kid who blows him away every fucking day. He knows for shit certain that taking the suit won’t do anything to stop Peter. </p><p> </p><p>And besides, Peter already has a dad to take care of things like groundings and punishments. That’s not Tony’s place to step in.</p><p> </p><p>So he hollers until he feels something in his chest crack right in two, and then he turns towards his suit, ready to leave—only to stop at the sound of Peter’s breath hitching.</p><p> </p><p>He talks Peter down from what Peter assures him is an asthma attack, though Tony knows better, and then Peter says, dry-eyed and dry-cheeked and cracked-lipped, “You reminded me of her. May.”</p><p> </p><p>And Tony doesn’t know what to do with that. So he brushes Peter’s sweaty bangs off his forehead, and he apologizes for yelling.</p><p> </p><p>Peter says, “I know you only did because you were scared.” And then, “I was scared, too. Still am.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony kneels in front of him, solemn as anything, and says, “But you always square up to your fear and tell it <em> I’m not afraid of you. </em> I just—scream at it until it runs the other way.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter shrugs a little, looking exhausted and sore. “Sometimes when we’re scared we just gotta scream a little,” he says, and Tony thinks he really, really cares too much about this kid.</p><p> </p><p>He takes Peter back to Ben, and Ben hugs Peter so tight and long that Tony almost slips out of the apartment unnoticed. </p><p> </p><p>But Ben chases him out the door, grabs him by the elbow, stares him straight in the eye, and says, “You did good, for a first-time assistant dad.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods—buoyant as always, even while solemn—lets go of Tony, and goes back into his apartment, closing the door between them. </p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>“Doc,” says Ben. </p><p> </p><p>He is fully aware that Tony never quite knows how to answer to this name. That does not stop Ben. Ben is incorrigible. “Bugs,” he offers this time. </p><p> </p><p>And it manages to pull a smile right from Ben’s navel, his vision blurring through the crinkles by his eyes. “Hey, that was funny. Good job,” he tells Tony. </p><p> </p><p>Tony sniffs. “Of course it was funny. I’m hilarious. A machine that generates knee-slappers.”</p><p> </p><p>“Insert a quarter, out comes a joke.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony taps the crater in his chest, where his t-shirt clings to the hollow spot the reactor once filled. “Here’s the slot. You pump my arm to make it work, like a nutcracker.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben pumps Tony’s arm. </p><p> </p><p>“How about that airline food?” Tony says. </p><p> </p><p>Ben snorts, then grins at Tony Fucking Stark for a moment, still holding his elbow. He tugs it. “Come inside, the hell are we doing out here. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben pulls Tony into the living room, sits him on the couch. “Pete’s napping,” he says, rolling his eyes fondly. “He had that chem practical this morning and I think the stress was keeping him up for days.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony hums, wiggling into the cushion crease, which Ben always leaves open for him. It’s where he sits every time he comes over. </p><p> </p><p>Ben flicks on the TV. Jeopardy is just starting. </p><p> </p><p>“Hell yes,” Ben says. “Lemme grab some beers or something.”</p><p> </p><p>“Beer and old people shows. How very hip of us,” Tony says. </p><p> </p><p>Ben, rifling through the fridge already, says, “I was trying to appeal to your age group, grandpa. I’ll do better next time. G-d forbid you hit me with your slipper.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not old,” Tony says, affronted. “I am, perhaps, slightly aged, like a block of fancy cheese, but I certainly am not old. That is preposterous.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm,” Ben says, dropping the Michelob into Tony’s hand. Old people beer. “You’re simply spritely.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I am.” He takes a sip as Ben sits next to him. “Not my fault you still walk around looking like Achilles at forty-years-old. Making the rest of us look like garbage on legs.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben shrugs. “Rich got all the brain genes. I got the shoulders. I think it’s a fair trade-off.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony makes a sound like a choked scoff. “Very fair. I win, in this trade-off, in case you were wondering.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you get to look at me all the gosh darn day,” Ben fills in, throwing an arm across the back of the couch and leaning into it, sipping his—reasonable for his age—Heineken. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah, pretty much.”</p><p> </p><p>Alex Trebek says, <em> “The three-word title of this Prince song follows the lyrics, </em>this is what it sounds like…”</p><p> </p><p>“When Doves Cry,” Ben and Tony shout out in tandem. </p><p> </p><p>They clink their beers. This song unites their generations. Everyone and their mother loves Prince.</p><p> </p><p><em> “The most famous speech in Shakespeare’s </em> As You Like It <em> says all the world is this.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“A stage,” Tony says. </p><p> </p><p>Ben grunts. “I’ve never read a word of Shakespeare in my life.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s a putz. Don’t bother.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s a colorful term for a misleading clue in a murder mystery.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Something about a fish,” Tony says. “Anchovy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Salmon.”</p><p> </p><p>“And a color. Green octopus.”</p><p> </p><p>“Purple squid. Like the one in Nemo, aw.”</p><p> </p><p>“Blackfish. Like the documentary.”</p><p> </p><p>“We are so good at Jeopardy. It’s obviously a word-relation game and not at all a fact recall one.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What is a red herring?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” says Ben. </p><p> </p><p>“I totally knew that,” Tony says, knocking his beer against his forehead. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “This state capital lies at the southern edge of Puget Sound.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“The who what?” says Ben. “I’ve never left New York, not even to take a piss in Hoboken.” He looks at Tony. “Not that Hoboken doesn’t deserve it. Because it certainly does.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony has his face screwed up and one finger in the air as if he’s asking Ben to wait as he shits the answer out. </p><p> </p><p>He jumps and says “Olympia,” grinning brilliantly. </p><p> </p><p>Ben whistles. “Look at you. Grandpa levels up. Level four grandpa features include removable teeth, runny shits, and a perfect Jeopardy score.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony takes his shoe off, waves it threateningly, and Ben laughs aloud, head back and eyes closed. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, sport,” Tony says out of nowhere, and Ben thinks <em> that’s new, </em>but it turns out he’s referring to Peter, who is standing in the entryway to the living room. His face is shadow-streaked, every angle dipped in grey, and his shoulders are hunched. One of his socks is hanging loose around his angle. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, yes, my son, the girl from The Ring,” Ben says. “Do join us, Jeepers Creepers.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter doesn’t move, but it sounds like he mumbles something. </p><p> </p><p>Ben feels around for the remote. Tony hands it to him before he finds it, and he mutes Jeopardy. </p><p> </p><p>“Say it again?” Tony says. </p><p> </p><p>“Here… out me.” </p><p> </p><p>He frowns. Peter isn’t a mumbler, really. So this is weird. </p><p> </p><p>Ben gets up, knees cracking, and crosses to Peter, who still hasn’t moved. As the angle of light changes and Ben gets a better look at his face, he softens, feeling extraordinarily fond. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s sleepwalking,” Ben calls to Tony. </p><p> </p><p>“Does he always do that?” Tony asks. “He doesn’t do that at my house. Do you make him do that? Are you a wizard, secretly practicing spells on the kid when I’m not around to supervise?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I don’t make him do that, you doofus.” Ben takes one of Peter’s hands, just because he feels like it. “And the only person I’m testing spells on is you. Love Potion Number Nine, baby.” He runs his thumb over Peter’s knuckles. </p><p> </p><p>Peter mumbles something unintelligible. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” Ben says. “Totally agree. Continue, tell me more.”</p><p> </p><p>He leans closer to hear Peter garbling. </p><p> </p><p>“Ben… ‘n Tony.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben grins. “Yeah. You heard us on the couch and wanted to come hang out, didn’t you? You little sneak.” He lightly pulls Peter’s hand and starts to walk with him in obedient tow. Peter’s always been good about following while sleepwalking—it’s the only time he listens to rules without a fight, probably. “Your body needs sleep, but your brain wants to watch Jeopardy. That’s cool. As long as you don’t snore, that’s good with us, buddy.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony watches them as they come nearer, a complicated expression on his face. </p><p> </p><p>Ben stands Peter at the edge of the couch. “Wanna sit, Petey?”</p><p> </p><p>He sits first, leaving space for Peter between him and Tony, so they can catch him if he goes tumbling off the cushions. </p><p> </p><p>It takes a few tries, but Peter gets his knees up. </p><p> </p><p>Then, rather than sitting, he drops his head on Tony’s lap and his feet on Ben’s and falls bonelessly back into a deep sleep. </p><p> </p><p>Ben takes it in stride, cuffing Peter’s ankles in his hands. </p><p> </p><p>Tony goes tense. </p><p> </p><p>Ben looks from Peter’s head—ruffled, messy curls and not much else—to Tony. Then he stares at the muted TV. </p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Ben says conversationally. “He used to do this all the time when he was young. Come find May and I wherever we were, out like a light, and just cling.” He slouches further into the couch, bouncing his knees. “When he’s stressed, it starts back up again. Roaming the halls, going to sit at his desk and scribble gibberish on paper. It’s not often, and it’s pretty harmless. Kinda cute, really. Like his body knows he needs a little extra lovin’, even if his mind doesn’t realize.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben peeks at Tony from the corner of his eye and is pleased to see Tony’s hand has found itself atop Peter’s head, combing through his curls. When he snags on a knot, he’s gentle in pulling it loose. </p><p> </p><p>Ben looks totally leftward, trying to stupidly hide his face so Tony can’t see the smile that’s threatening to tear him right in two, longways, Joker-style. </p><p> </p><p>It’s just—Peter needs everyone in his corner that he can get. And Ben isn’t blind: Peter looks at Tony like Tony painted the sky for him, prodded every star in the pattern of his freckles, every color of the Northern Lights to be something he saw in Peter and pulled out, copied it to spread its goodness. And it makes Ben verklempt, it makes him want to throw a fucking party, because it’s not just anyone. It’s the person Peter has spent his whole childhood staring out the window at as he zips by in his tin can. It’s someone who reminds Peter to be smart more than anything, who tells him he’s capable and badass, but who wants just as much as Ben for Peter to stay sweet. </p><p> </p><p>And maybe Tony needs a prod in the right direction every now and then, but Ben is so good at prodding. He’ll be the best prodder ever if it ends with Peter getting to realize how enormously, unconditionally loved he is. </p><p> </p><p>Ben blinks hard to rid his eyes of moisture, then grabs the remote where he’d left it. He unmutes Jeopardy. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Which is the only predominantly Spanish-speaking country whose name contains an article in the Spanish language?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A mumble comes from Peter. Sounds like <em> empanadas.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Ben and Tony snort in tandem. </p><p> </p><p>“Good guess, kid. Fuck if I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“El Salvador.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shit. You <em> bitch.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“My brain is a rat trap,” Ben tells Tony. “I’m nothing like Pete and you, all school smarts and shit. But, fuck, do I ever know a random fact.” </p><p> </p><p>And, like that, everything is normal again. It’s no precious moment—this is now their norm. Just like usual: the three of them spending time. </p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Then Peter’s homecoming date has a dad who sells illegal alien weapons. So Peter leaves the dance, Stark suit in hand, and goes to do whatever he can.</p><p> </p><p>He gets crushed by a building, then yanks a plane out of the sky and crashes onto the beach at Coney Island. Ben watches every second of coverage on the news, the tip of his nose inches away from the screen of his TV, and dials Tony Fucking Stark over and over and over and over and—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “This is Tony. Only, like, five very important people have this number, so if I’m not picking up, I’m actually busy. Try me again; if you ring me enough times I’ll probably hear it eventually!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Peter comes through the door at ten to midnight, face cut to bits, limping on a twisted ankle, suit torn, dust and sand falling off him in waves. Clattering on the hardwood. Collecting by their shoes. </p><p> </p><p>How did he manage to get home. How, how, how. Without Tony Fucking Stark, without Ben. </p><p> </p><p>Ben is on his feet before Peter even opens his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“I got him,” Peter says. His voice sounds terrible, like he’d gargled fucking nails and glass shards, and Ben’s heart is beating fast enough, hard enough to power the whole city. “He almost got away with the plane, but then I—I got him, Ben, I got him. And he’s still alive, so Liz—Liz still has—”</p><p> </p><p>Ben catches Peter before Peter even realizes he’s falling, lowering him to the floor of the entryway. “Okay,” he says, “okay, okay. Good job, Petey. You did it. I’m so, <em> so </em> proud of you.” He’s gonna <em> vomit. </em> “You did brilliantly, good job coming right home to me. I love you. Okay, sit right here, I’ll be right back. You—catalog the injuries, okay? Figure out what hurts? And then we’re gonna start taking care of it. Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ben,” Peter says.</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I know, baby. Alright.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben runs, sock feet slipping, to the medicine cabinet, and grabs the first aid kit. His ears are ringing. </p><p> </p><p>He runs back to the entryway, falling to his knees before he’s even beside Peter and sliding the rest of the way. </p><p> </p><p>“Got a—got a list for me, buddy? Things to fix?”</p><p> </p><p>Peter croaks out, “Not much you can do. Something wrong with my leg, that’ll heal itself. Um, some—disinfecting?” He gestures weakly to his face. “This stuff. Be mostly gone overnight. A—ah, ribs hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben drops the box, leaning forward, probing gently at Peter’s sides through the suit. “Oy gevalt iz mir,” he mumbles. “A crack right here, kiddo—two, actually, but no displacement, okay. No displacement.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who named you the bone expert?” Peter manages. And, <em>fuck,</em> Ben loves him, he’s joking even now, to make Ben smile, Ben sees it in his eyes, the stiffened corners, the near-to-shatter look of them, brown where Ben has hazel but still every inch his boy.</p><p> </p><p>“May taught me a thing or two,” Ben says, and he doesn’t even have the time for that to ache. He helps Peter maneuver out of the suit, leaving him in just boxers and clean dress socks, and Ben wants to cry, his eyes are stinging, his throat is sore, he lets it happen. Silent tears, just dripping. </p><p> </p><p>Peter is laid out like a fucking Monet on the hardwood. All the colors of his lilies, greens and lavenders and yellowed edges and Ben is sick, Ben shakes, every bruise hurts him like it's his own. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, Petey,” Ben says, sobbing, he’s such a loser. He can’t even hold it together for his kid.</p><p> </p><p>“Ben,” Peter says, and his breathing is picking up, chest rising and falling clumsily, and then he’s crying too, the kid who hasn’t fucking cried since he was ten and Ben found blood on his bedsheets, “Ben.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right here, I’m right here,” Ben breathes, hands hovering over Peter’s chest, shuddering, unsure where to touch, how to. Can he, should he, or will he just add to the fucking tragedy.</p><p> </p><p>Ben wipes what he can. Peter rolls to his side and Ben sees the carnage that is his back, with puckered wounds oozing and bits of concrete and metal stuck into the skin and he buries his face in his bare, unbloodied wrists, shaking with every inch of himself. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Ben sobs. “Okay. We’ve got this, Petey. You’ve got a little shrapnel for me to take out, but after that, we’ll stitch you up, get you clean, and take as many painkillers as we can, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “No,” </em> Ben says, keening from his very chest, “no, Peter, you were brilliant. Brilliant. I love you. I hate that you do this, that you get hurt, but I love you. You’re so good. Let me help you, now, please. Please.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter settles on his side, wiping under his eyes, under his nose, and Ben takes the sanitary tweezers and starts to pluck, Peter gasping and groaning and Ben biting his lip so hard it bleeds, a droplet dripping into the beard on his chin.</p><p> </p><p>“So good, Pete. You’re doing good. Almost done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ben.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m right here, baby.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Never. Not to me.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben stitches him up, and with every hitch in Peter’s breath, he aches. His tears slow. His hands grow steady. He sews into the skin of his boy’s back like he’s making a fucking quilt, the sounds of their sniffling and the sickly scent of blood and sweat hanging in the air.</p><p> </p><p>Ben helps him wash, Peter sitting in the tub with his boxers on, Ben rubbing shampoo into his curls like he hasn’t in years and years, holding his fingers in a visor over Peter’s forehead to keep the bloody suds from falling into his eyes. Peter’s lips are pressed together. He is in pain. Ben can tell. </p><p> </p><p>Ben is as gentle as he can manage, holding the shower spout over him, stroking his forehead with his thumb. </p><p> </p><p>His lip begins to tremble again. He pulls Peter’s head gently closer, leans it on his chest. His shirt gets wet. He doesn’t care. He presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head, then to his temple near a stitch. To his cheekbone. Another to his wet hair. Peter lets himself be moved, boneless.</p><p> </p><p>Ben helps him stand, steadying his ribs to keep them from shifting out of place. He towel dries him, brings him a change of boxers and his softest PJs, and then plasters bandaids over the stitched wounds. </p><p> </p><p>He lays Peter on his and May’s bed, Peter’s head in his lap, and dries his hair with May’s old blow dryer, running his fingers through the curls. </p><p> </p><p>Peter falls asleep to the sound. Ben keeps brushing his hair, and he cries, and he rips his bloodstained shirt off in a desperate frenzy, breath hitching, sure he’ll burn it when Peter is at school.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t until two in the morning that his phone rings, Tony Stark’s name on the screen. </p><p> </p><p>Ben picks up. “Doc,” he says.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Ben,” </em> his voice is harried, <em> “what happened? What’s wrong?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Now you call,” Ben says. His chest is overflowing with something tight and his eyes are fucking watering again.</p><p> </p><p><em> “I’ve been in an Accords meeting since eight this morning,” </em> Tony says. <em> “I just got out, I’m literally—walking out of the room right now.” </em></p><p> </p><p>The emotion melts as soon as it was there.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you hear your plane went down?” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “My—the moving plane?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“The father of Peter’s homecoming date was trying to steal your shit, so Peter left the dance and took the plane down.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh, my G-d. Ben.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“He’s in bed. With me. He’s right here. He’s—fuck. He’s not okay. He’s not fine. But he’s alive.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m so sorry. What the fuck. What the fuck.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I know. S’not your fault.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “It is. I should have—had some sort of advanced protection on the shipment, should have done </em>something—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s done now,” Ben says. </p><p> </p><p>Peter rolls in his lap, groaning, knuckling his eye. “Ben?” he mumbles. “Oh. Shit. Ow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, hi,” Ben says, softly, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Right here.” Then, to Tony, “Wanna say hi to him?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Is he awake? G-d, does he have the lung space to spare?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ben feels a stirring in his chest that, any other day, would have been a laugh. “Yeah. Here.” </p><p> </p><p>He brushes Peter’s bangs back again. “Wanna say hi to Tony real quick? He wants to hear your voice, make sure you’re alive.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter leans into the phone when Ben puts it down. “Hi, Tony. M’okay. I’m hhnghn.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Didn’t quite catch that, buddy,” </em> Ben hears Tony say.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm. Sleepy.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Of course. You go sleep, okay, kid? You’re amazing. You did amazing. I’m so sorry you did that. Peter. You didn’t have to do that.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Course I did,” Peter slurs, eyes rolling back. “Important stuff. Cap stuff. Thor stuff. Couldn’ let him get it.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “G-d, Peter. Okay. I’m coming back to the city right now, okay? I’ll come to visit you tomorrow.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“No school?” Peter says, a wrinkle between his brows. Ben smooths it out with his thumb.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No, buddy. Tomorrow is Saturday.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, nice.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yeah,” </em> Tony croaks. Ben can hear his breathing picking up speed. <em> “Yeah. See you tomorrow, buddy. Hang in there.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Mm. Bye, T’ny.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben slips the phone out from under Peter’s ear. “Hey,” he says, choked.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Mother of fuck,” </em> Tony says, just as tight. <em> “What the fuck.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I know.” He drops to a whisper as Peter snores enormously. “I was pulling concrete and metal shrapnel out of his back a few hours ago.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Ben.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I know. Cracked ribs, twisted ankle. I’ve got him on ice, an—ace bandage. Got him stitched and everything.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fuck, Ben, I’m so sorry. I wish this was—three days ago, I still had the medbay set up in the tower.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“We managed. Have you got any… have you got any pain relievers for him, though?” Ben’s throat is closing again, fuck, <em> fuck. </em> “I had to give him a few Advil and just fucking pray, but if you have something better—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Absolutely, I’ll find it, I’ll—fucking synthesize it new if I have to, Jesus. Yes, of course. Anything.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Ben says. “Okay. I’m gonna go. Try and sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You know I won’t. You try, too.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You know I won’t.” Ben lets out a shuddering sob, presses his bare arm over his mouth. “Night, Doc.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hang in there. I’ll see you in a few hours.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ben hangs up. </p><p> </p><p>The silence rings.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>The next day is a blur of Tony carting them mugs of matzo ball soup defrosted from Ben’s freezer; Peter sleeping like the dead under the influence of his pain meds, splayed across their laps again; and Ben bursting intermittently into tears. Tony, at one point, grabs his hand and squeezes. </p><p> </p><p>Ben thinks of that day in the cafe and wonders how they got here.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Things carry on. </p><p> </p><p>Peter gets put on medication to help with the PTSD that has him screaming in the night. He sleeps in Ben’s bed, now. Ben doesn’t mind. He’s warm and the mattress is wide, and he could never complain about being nearer to his boy.</p><p> </p><p>Tony gets a penthouse in Manhattan. He buys out the empty floor under it and turns it into a small lab, and Peter goes by twice a week. </p><p> </p><p>Tony comes over for dinners. When the baseball season ends, they watch football, which they are much less interested in. Plus, Tony is a Giants fan, which is disgusting. Ben and Peter exclusively root for shitty teams, because it builds character. They tell Tony to go sleep in the doghouse when he shows up in his blues.</p><p> </p><p>Winter comes into the city fiercely, biting winds and slushy snow falling by Halloween. Peter starts dressing in layers upon layers, sweaters under sweatshirts, and Ben splurges for a new coat for him. They’ve got a little extra money, now that so many of their meals are coming from the hands of Tony Fucking Stark.</p><p> </p><p>The high holidays pass one by one, and Hanukkah hits, with everything that goes with it.</p><p> </p><p>They stick their menorah in the window, and Peter says the <em> Shehechiyanu </em> and the <em> Haneirot Hallalu </em> on behalf of both of them. They sing the <em> Maoz Tzur, </em> and they eat enough latkes to make even Peter sick to his stomach. Good thing potatoes and applesauce are cheap.</p><p> </p><p>The second night, Tony comes over. </p><p> </p><p>Peter’s in the shower scrubbing off a long patrol of cat-chasing and putting out Menorah-curtain fires when Tony walks right through their door without bothering to knock.</p><p> </p><p>“I brought you <em> sufganiyot </em> from that Jewish bakery on Second Ave,” Tony announces, toeing his shoes off and hanging his scarf on the coat hangers.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Oh, hell yeah!” </em> Peter hollers over the sound of water running. </p><p> </p><p>Tony looks around for him, squinting.</p><p> </p><p>Ben, who is on the couch, waves an arm. “He’s cleaning soot out of his crevices.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. Been there.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony drops the pastries on the kitchen table and comes into the living room, thick woolen socks and thick woolen sweater and soft, fluffy hair. He’s rosy-nosed and smiling a little and Ben wants to squish his cheeks. He looks fucking happy as shit.</p><p> </p><p>“What do we have here?” Tony says, clambering onto the couch beside Ben, close enough to press their shoulders together, his knees tucked to his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Ben scoots the photo album he’s got open on his lap closer to Tony.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Tony says gently. His finger traces the air over a picture of May from right after she’d given herself that pixie cut, standing barefoot on the tile in the bathroom of her old college dorm, shorn hair all around her, laughing with her mouth wide open and her eyes scrunched shut.</p><p> </p><p>“She was beautiful,” Tony says.</p><p> </p><p>“Absolute stunner,” Ben agrees, grinning softly, proudly. “I cuffed that.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony snorts. “You were both lucky, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“The luckiest. Gosh. I’m so grateful to have known her.”</p><p> </p><p>A moment longer, both of them staring at May.</p><p> </p><p>Ben flips the page. This one is full of Peter, just born, wrinkly and frog-like and premature with skinny legs and a scowl on his face, screaming his head off, covered in goop.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s so ugly,” Tony says. “Holy shit. He grew into <em> that, </em> after <em> this?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I know, right?” Ben says ruefully. “Here, wait. Let me find the good ones.”</p><p> </p><p>Once Peter hit three months or so, he grew into his big head and his tiny nose and his enormous, wide eyes. He put on some chunk. His head was wider than it was long, fat-cheeked and gummy-smiled, and he had a soft down of dark curls spilling over his forehead. His eyes were that milky greyish pre-brown, and he was always ruddy. Always giggling, spitting down himself, over his chins. Dimpled fingers, tiny little feet, and thighs like hocks of ham. He ended up Gerber baby material.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Tony says, staring. “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben’s lips are trembling. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck?” Tony says, eyes wide, locked on the pictures. His entire body has gone stiff.</p><p> </p><p>“Look at you,” Ben sniffles, rubbing the sleeve of his sweater under his nose, leaning heavily into Tony’s side. “Look. That’s my baby, and you’re crying over him.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s so—that’s—angel face—” Tony’s voice is choked.</p><p> </p><p>“Aw, Tony!” Ben hoots a wet laugh. “You care so much. Look at you!”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care,” Tony says caringly through a sheen of tears. “Your kid is a menace. I don’t care he looks like—G-d’s gift to humanity, a fucking Botticelli cherub.” He sniffles loudly, and Ben starts to laugh silently, shoulders shaking. “He’s a little smart aleck. A few days ago I almost tripped and he—like, caught me, but then he said, right away, without even thinking about it, <em> Woah, don’t want you breaking a hip, old man.” </em> Tony throws his arms in the air in offense, a tear dripping loose on his cheek. </p><p> </p><p>Ben laughs all the harder, his head falling backward, his hand clapping down on his thigh.</p><p> </p><p>“What kind of <em> asshole </em> says that?!”</p><p> </p><p>“My asshole,” Ben chokes, wiping under his eyes. He claps Tony on the shoulder. “Our asshole, who you have visitation rights with like we’re some—strangely civil divorced couple.”</p><p> </p><p>“As if I would ever divorce a dime like you,” Tony scoffs, and they say shit like this all the time, but Tony sort of always makes Ben feel like a real special guy, a real good person, so he <em> aww </em>s aloud, his face screwing up, and pulls Tony towards him in an impulsive hug that has the both of them freezing the second their chests bump. </p><p> </p><p>But then Tony’s arms snake around him and squeeze something fierce, so Ben wraps his own round Tony’s shoulders and grins. </p><p> </p><p>It’s weird, adopting yourself a brother. A platonic co-dad. G-d, they really are a married couple. <em> G-d, </em>he really would’ve married a twink. Fuck. </p><p> </p><p>“Woah, am I interrupting a moment?”</p><p> </p><p>Tony jumps, but Ben holds him all the closer, humming, pleased. He peers up from Tony’s shoulder to grin at Peter. “Yes. Yes, you are. I’m hugging Tony.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’re breaking him,” Peter points out. His hair is all wet, dripping on his forehead. He’s folded in this blue hoodie and Ben can spot two turtlenecks peeking out from under it. His sweatpants are tucked into a pair of sports socks. He’s such a weirdo. Ben <em> adores </em> him.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, then, you join in and fix him,” Ben suggests.</p><p> </p><p>Peter grins.</p><p> </p><p>He runs and leaps over the back of the couch, falling down on Tony’s other side, and they squeeze him in a Parker sandwich. </p><p> </p><p>Tony doesn’t even grumble. He takes it like a man. Ben thinks he might even be happy there.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>January comes, and Tony decides it’s time for them to have a big family dinner: Tony, Ben, Peter, Pepper, and Rhodey. It’ll be at the Manhattan penthouse, since it’s the only place that will fit them all around a single table.</p><p> </p><p>Ben wears his nicest corduroys. Peter combs his hair. It’s gonna be legit.</p><p> </p><p>They show up, a wine bottle in hand, and Tony smiles at them, all eye-wrinkles and fondness, and squeezes their elbows. He brings the bottle into the kitchen and talks, assuming they’re following him, “Pep and Rhodey will be here any minute. She had a meeting in Hell’s Kitchen, which, gross, but Rhodey is picking her up from the restaurant.”</p><p> </p><p>The bottle of wine goes on the counter. Ben gets himself a glass of water, then lets himself into the living room. There’s a wall of just windows and the whole place is full of light. It’s softer than Ben would have expected from Tony: blankets folded over the arms of the couches, a blazing fireplace, Moroccan rugs. Candles on the end tables, throw pillows. One of those sweatshirt blanket things stashed under the coffee table.</p><p> </p><p>“FRIDAY, put something fun on the TV,” Tony calls, and the AI does so. A Jeopardy rerun blinks onto the screen and Ben says, “Oh!” as he settles in to watch. </p><p> </p><p>Peter, at the same time, says, “That’s something <em> fun?” </em> And then <em> “Ow!” </em> when Tony flicks his ear.</p><p> </p><p>Peter stays in the kitchen despite the <em> attack, that was so rude, Tony, seriously, I could call CPS on you right now, I really could, </em> and Ben peers over his shoulder at them every once in a while, between <em> Kilimanjaros </em> and <em> Eights </em> and <em> Chinese Finger Traps. </em> And they talk loud, so Ben stays tuned-in to the conversation.</p><p> </p><p>Tony shakes a cast iron pan full of asparagus. Peter keeps stealing stalks out, despite the fact that they’re only halfway cooked.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re gonna finish them all before Rhodey and Pepper even get here. Paws off, weirdo.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m only eating the little ones! They’ll overcook before the really thick ones finish.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben smiles fondly, not even pretending to listen to Alex Trebek any longer.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, when I met your uncle, he made it sound like he has to force you to eat a vegetable. Are you just that hungry right now, that you’re stooping to this level? Green stuff? Rabbit food?”</p><p> </p><p>Peter grabs Tony’s arm, leaning in. His expression is solemn, deathly, intense. “We live like frat boys. Ben can cook, but, like, he makes wings and burgers and shit. I have to <em> beg </em> for a vegetable. When I want brussels sprouts, I go to Ned’s.” </p><p> </p><p>“You never told me you wanted a vegetable!” Ben hollers over the back of the couch. “I read the room, and the room tends to say <em> teenage putz, </em>so I go niche. Finger food and—snacky shit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Frat boy fare,” Tony deduces, looking to Peter. </p><p> </p><p>Peter throws his arms up. “An orange, at least! A peach. A pear. Maybe a plum, if we’re feeling frisky!! I’m begging you, Ben!!”</p><p> </p><p>Ben wrinkles his nose. “I can do orange chicken,” he says, “but that’s about it.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter groans and throws himself onto the tile floor. </p><p> </p><p>“You killed him,” Tony remarks. </p><p> </p><p>“Shit. You don’t even have a yard to bury him in. What kind of guy doesn’t think ahead enough to choose a property with a yard to bury the kids in once he’s killed ‘em?”</p><p> </p><p>Tony prods Peter with a foot. He stays limp. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I have some extra-large garbage bags we can stick him in, and then straight in the dumpster. No one will ever know.”</p><p> </p><p>“No witnesses.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get the good knife; we can cut him into bits to make him fit better.”</p><p> </p><p>“A true shame,” Ben sighs, shaking his head. “He was alright, that kid. A good arm for playing catch. Held the door for all the old ladies.”</p><p> </p><p>“He watched <em> The Goonies </em> with me once, even though he hates it,” Tony says nostalgically. “Eggland’s best egg, he was.”</p><p> </p><p>He kicks Peter’s leg and Peter runs with the gag, rolling over onto his back and keeping his eyes open wide and unseeing. </p><p> </p><p>“Spooky,” Ben says. “We could just keep him and use his decaying body for Halloween decor.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony looks at him, delighted and disgusted. “I like the way you think, Missus Lovett.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter sits up sharply with a gasp. “Not dead. Totally not dead. Please don’t use my corpse to scare children.”</p><p> </p><p>“Damn,” Ben says. “Thought I was finally rid of him.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s head jerks to stare at him and he pouts spectacularly. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t do that,” Ben says. </p><p> </p><p>The pout deepens. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah shit.”</p><p> </p><p>He gets up from the couch and joins Peter on the floor, Tony hopping around them to grab seasonings and a pair of tongs. 

Ben wraps his arm over Peter’s shoulders and smacks a loud kiss on his temple. “I never wanna be rid of ya, Pete,” he assures. </p><p> </p><p>Peter grins. “I know. I’m too precious.” </p><p> </p><p>Tony laughs aloud. “Sure, kid, if it helps you sleep at night.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm,” Peter says. “I’d take all the help I can get when it comes to sleeping at night.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben ruffles Peter’s hair, hating that Peter aches enough to make the moment solemn. </p><p> </p><p>“Time, buddy,” Tony says. “That’s what helps.”</p><p> </p><p>“And being around those you love,” Ben agrees, planting a second kiss on him just because he wants to.</p><p> </p><p>“Gross,” Peter says happily. </p><p> </p><p>Pepper and Actual Colonel James Rhodes arrive soon after, both of them sharply put together and witty and beautiful, and Tony is obviously besotted with them both in his own way. They both tower over him, even Pepper without her shoes and Rhodey in his braces, and Ben wants to laugh a bit because Tony looks like a kid showing his parents off at back to school night. He kisses Pepper full on the mouth and straightens Rhodey’s button-up, patting his chest, before turning towards Peter and Ben and saying, “So that’s them!!”</p><p> </p><p>Ben smiles, a little nervous but mostly so terribly happy that Tony has people he so blatantly loves to bits, and puts out his hand for them to shake. “Ben Parker,” he says, and is surprised when Pepper tugs him into a hug, squeezing his shoulders. “Oh! This is nice,” he mumbles, because one thing that hasn’t changed about him over these months is his ability to control his fucking trap. </p><p> </p><p>Pepper laughs, however. Uncouth, snorting and cute, and Ben suddenly likes her very much. “I’m Pepper,” she says. “It’s lovely to finally meet you—especially after all Tony tells us about you.”</p><p> </p><p>“All bad things, I bet,” Ben says. </p><p> </p><p>Rhodey shakes his hand, then, firm and strong, and says, “Every word he says is about how sexy and nice you are. <em> Ben Parker’s veiny forearms, Ben Parker’s beard, Ben Parker’s pretty eyelashes. </em> I expected a fucking Abercrombie model, and, frankly, I’m not disappointed.”</p><p> </p><p>Ben blushes as Peter yelps, “Oh, gross, Tony!”</p><p> </p><p>Tony shrugs. “Can’t help it. <em> Look </em> at him. A studmuffin. You understand my pain.”</p><p> </p><p>Pepper pats him on the head like a lapdog. “You’ve always been weak around pretty people. I’m not offended.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony grins up at her. “I love you,” he says mushily. </p><p> </p><p>Peter and Rhodes make eye contact and mime gagging. </p><p> </p><p>Ben grins. This feels like initiation in the best way.</p><p> </p><p>They make it to the dining table, all of them sitting at the end nearest the windows, now showing a lavender sunset scraped through with silver turrets, gold gleaming off the windows across the street. They all get a glass of wine—even Peter, because why would Ben stop him from having one glass of white wine when he doesn’t stop him from literally getting shot once a month—and watch as Tony carts in the asparagus, and a salad, and spare ribs.</p><p> </p><p>“Fully kosher, I swear,” Tony assures them, and Ben grins big, because Tony is always thoughtful, always careful, and this is how he says <em> I love you </em> without saying it. Sometime, Ben will figure out how Tony best accepts love, and just obliterate him with it. Maybe that cookie recipe from the day they met. Or a nice, homemade card.</p><p> </p><p>Tony is practically vibrating, shifting their glasses and plates to make room for the serving dishes. “This is going to be the best meal you’ve ever eaten, I swear it, I literally should’ve gone to culinary school instead of MIT, what was I thinking,” Tony says, stalking back into the kitchen to grab whatever else he’s feeding them.</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Ben says, leaning into his palm, “for a twink, he’s very sure of himself.”</p><p> </p><p>Rhodey and Pepper snarf into their wine glasses, rising from the rims sopping wet and wheezing. </p><p> </p><p>Peter, shaking his head in disappointment, says, “Ben, we talked about this. You can’t call him that outside of your own head.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think it was a very astute observation, actually, probably the most—astute observation ever, historically, over the course of time,” says Rhodey, eyes alight as he dabs his shirt dry with a napkin. </p><p> </p><p>“He <em> is </em> a twink,” Pepper says. “I’ve been looking for the right word to capture his essence since I met him and it was right there in front of me the whole time. Thank you, Ben, for awakening me.”</p><p> </p><p>“My third eye is wide open,” Ben says sagely. </p><p> </p><p>“Close it,” Peter says. “It needs a nap.”</p><p> </p><p>Tony sets down some warm bread—thick, crusty Italian stuff, homemade and all—and then sits. </p><p> </p><p>They dig in, and all Ben can think is that this is the weirdest Shabbat dinner he’s ever shared, but it feels damn good to be around a table with so many people again. Sometimes it’s lonely, just him and Peter, and Ben loves Peter with every bone in his body, down to his every cell, but that doesn’t make their house any louder.</p><p> </p><p>This, however. Ben could get used to this. The noise, the elbows bumping into his. The same way he got used to Tony—the way he’s a fixture in Ben’s everyday life. What the fuck is up with that? So strange. But good. This could become good, too. Shabbat dinners at Tony’s. Hm.</p><p> </p><p>Ben takes a sip of his wine. He watches Peter and Tony blatantly kick at each other under the table. He looks to Pepper, who winks at him, and Rhodey, who says, “Kids, amirite?” gesturing to them both.</p><p> </p><p>Ben just grins. He’ll take this all with wide open arms, grateful as he’s ever been in his life. </p><p> </p><p>He silently gives a toast to mishpocheh, in all its crooked forms. But especially, more than anything, this form right here.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>translations:<br/>nudnik: a pest<br/>to plotz: to be so overwrought you will metaphorically explode<br/>dreck: trash<br/>to be verklempt: to be too emotional to speak<br/>mishpocheh: family, but, like, More</p><p>i have been waiting to write this for SO LONG and im so glad i finally have. i will never be totally happy with it but i just wanted to give my own take on this friendship in the universe of my specific soft babey ben. GAH! i love him and i hope you all do too. also i adore this series and i know some of the reader drop is bc they stopped counting guest readers for a while but GOSH please read this series, it has all my soul in it LMAO</p><p>leave me all the thoughts! the emotions! the reactions! i want to chat with you all!</p><p>my <a href="https://floweryfran.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/flowery_fran">twitter</a></p><p>&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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